


Things We've Never Done

by cornflakes_canvas



Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bucket List, Drama, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Relationship Problems, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornflakes_canvas/pseuds/cornflakes_canvas
Summary: Dan had to read the words three times to make sure his mind wasn't playing a cruel trick on him.But he was not making this up."Things We've Never Done," it said at the top.





	Things We've Never Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanofthebastillelife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanofthebastillelife/gifts).



> TW: drowning  
> TW: very brief mention of needles
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting - let me know what you think. ♥

Dan was feeling more hollow than he ever had in his life.

He and Kyle had failed. They were losing each other for good, had in truth begun drifting apart a long time ago. A rather poetic, _romantic_ phrase, Dan had always thought; _drifting apart_ , as if the lovers were cowering on ramshackle rafts in the heart of the ocean, slowly floating out of each other's sight until they could not be sure whether the mocking glint at the horizon was a last trace of the person they had once loved or solely a figment of their imagination, contrived by a mind that was thirsting to see something other than the unyielding masses of water that stretched far and wide.

 

In reality, drifting apart felt more like being swallowed whole by those very currents.

 

For weeks and months, they had been awfully _tense_ around each other and the bone-deep exhaustion that plagued them after a long day at work had slowly invaded every aspect of their lives until eventually, it became a near-constant state of mind. Uncertain of themselves and their once rock-solid relationship, unsure of what was left to give to one another and what they were expecting from the life they shared, they would fight feverishly and ignore each other in the vague hope that their partner would chase after them and make an effort to reconcile – but they would wait in vain. Every argument, howsoever insignificant, was instantly blown out of proportion, they would quarrel bitterly over fabricated problems, about issues that were, in truth, _trifles_. More times than not, neither man would even remember what exactly had sparked the argument by the time they fell silent, unable to bear to continue shouting at each other. Dan felt like he was _drowning_ , in the nine-to-five job that had never fulfilled him, the adult responsibilities that had, surprisingly, seemed a lot easier to shoulder when he was nineteen and full of starry-eyed optimism, his barely existent social life – and now his longstanding love, the one aspect of his life that he had vowed to _always_ hold on to and forever protect.

So he tried to brace himself for the day that Kyle would inevitably draw the line. Dan himself could never end what they had, no matter how sour things turned. He was too afraid to face reality.

He was too scared of being alone.

 

Then he got the text.

_We need to talk_ , was all it said and Dan knew it couldn't be good, that Kyle wasn't about to tell him that they would be just fine and that he still loved him, no matter their issues. His hands were shaking when he replied to the message, as if he were an addict in desperate need of a fix he couldn't get, and he felt sick to his stomach when he finally dragged his feet up the stairs to their flat, every echoing footstep sounding like a faint drumbeat heralding inevitable defeat. He waited for Kyle in the living room, pacing around, downing a few shots of bitter whiskey – a futile attempt at softening the blow – and staring at the ceiling as the hours ticked away like minutes. It was a warm, placid early summer day that seemed to slowly melt away his very being, and still, Dan was trembling like a leaf, his body shaken by icy jolts that ran down his spine and made him clench his teeth, returning each and every time he remembered exactly what he was waiting for. He didn't want it to end, but when he attempted to compose a speech of sorts in his head, a _plea_ to his partner and a last effort to convince him that there were still reasons for them to be together, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. _We once loved each other_ simply wasn't good enough. _I don't want to have to do this alone, this passing of hours, weeks and years that I call life._ No, Dan knew if he still possessed so much as an ounce of the love he had once felt for the younger man, he had to let him go. For both their sakes.

But he didn't know how to.

 

Dan heard the key turn in the lock just over an hour after he had slumped down on the sofa, feeling numbed by the emptiness in his heart; he heard Kyle carelessly discard his trainers by the door and drop his keys on the kitchen table, heard him sigh loudly as he lingered in front of the living room door – and then he walked in, stood in the middle of the room and watched Dan silently, his gaze unusually hard. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before Dan caved and looked away, but chills of anticipation ran through him, prompted by the strange spark of determination in his lover's dark eyes, the look of sheer resilience. Kyle sat down next to him, clearing his throat as he placed a single sheet of ruled paper on the coffee table, and Dan furrowed his brow.

 

“What's this?”

 

His boyfriend didn't miss a beat. “You can read.”

 

Dan paused for a moment and gazed wistfully at Kyle's profile that was outlined sharply against the soft light that streamed in through the window. The younger man was still as beautiful as he had been ten years ago when Dan had fallen for him – even more so, now that his jaw was more defined, his beard as full as he had wanted it to be back then, his voice deeper, his gaze ... _stronger_. Dan felt like he himself had slowly withered away over the years and he tried to avoid looking in the mirror, scared of the weariness he would find in the blue eyes that had long-since lost their hungry glow, their hunger for life and knowledge and love. Swallowing around the painful dryness in his throat, he finally picked up the sheet, his trembling fingers betraying the deep-rooted emotions that he had tried to hide from Kyle for the longest time, that he had masked behind indifference and perpetual irritation.

His tired eyes could not decipher the scribbled writing at first, as if he were peering through a pair of binoculars and hadn't quite figured out how to adjust them just yet, but as soon as it came into focus, he recognised his boyfriend's handwriting, familiar bold and confident letters that leaned ever so slightly to the right, innocent and strangely ... _Kyle_. Dan had to read the words three times to make sure his mind wasn't playing a cruel trick on him, that it wasn't trying to lull him into a false sense of security.

But he was not making this up.

_Things We've Never Done_ , it said at the top.

 

_Learn how to play chess._

_Plant a tree._

_Watch an opera._

_Learn sign language._

 

The list went on.

 

“Is this a joke?”

 

Kyle grinned. “We're doing this.”

 

Dan felt perplexed, anxious – _offended_ even. Was all this _funny_ to Kyle? He couldn't possibly be that oblivious, that _blind_ to how rapidly their relationship had been racing downhill over the past year or so, so was he truly choosing this very moment to make a sick joke? Or was it a last desperate if genuine attempt at lighting a flame in the darkness that had slowly eaten them up, at forcing them both to huddle by the fire instead of blundering about in the shadows? He watched the younger man closely, tried to figure out the strange, once-familiar glint in his eyes where Dan had only seen dullness as of late and struggled to make sense of Kyle's peculiarly peaceful demeanour.

 

“You're ... serious.” It wasn't quite a question, but it might as well have been one.

 

Kyle's grin widened. “You know me, I'm never serious.”

 

Dan swallowed. “Kyle, please. I-”

 

The other didn't let him finish. Instead, he grasped Dan's hands gently in his own and _caressed_ them, and the older man flinched away as if it scared him, this flame his lover was stirring. Kyle gazed at their entwined hands for a moment, a tender smile lighting up his eyes. Then he looked at Dan and shook his head decisively.

“I don't blame you for losing hope, but I'm not giving up on you,” he whispered gently and Dan's heart seized painfully in his chest, “I'm not giving up on trying to make you happy. On putting a smile on your face and making you laugh till you cry. I know things have been ... _rough_ , don't think I'm forgetting that, or that I'm trying to sugar-coat our losses.” He sighed. “But I still love you. There's really no denying that, so I won't. And as long as I still love you, I am not going to watch this relationship capsize.”

 

Dan laughed an abrupt, near-hysterical laugh. “What's with the ship metaphors?”

 

Kyle shrugged. “All I'm trying to say is – not all is lost. I choose to believe that and all you have to do-” He sat closer to his lover, raised one hand and stroked his cheek softly, lovingly. Dan's eyes fluttered shut. He was ... _overwhelmed_. “-All you have to do is _say yes_.”

 

Summoning up all his courage, Dan blinked his eyes open and stared openly at the younger man. Kyle looked exactly the way he did the night they had met – not in appearance, but in _spirit_ ; excited, lively, curious. Dan had stopped believing that he would ever see this Kyle again, the Kyle who had knocked him off his feet without warning. He had missed him dearly.

 

The older man drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay, I- yes. Alright, _yes_.”

 

 

 

/ /

 

 

 

Three whole weeks passed before anything happened. Each night, Dan would come home to a warm, hopeful glimmer of light squeezing through the narrow gap under the door to their small office; sometimes, Kyle would be talking on the phone, other times there was nothing but silence for hours on end until the younger man would finally slip under the covers behind Dan, and not much changed except that Kyle smiled a lot more now – and that Dan began hoping again.

When both men were finally freed from work for the summer, Kyle revealed what he had been working on over the course of the past weeks and presented his baffled partner with a surprisingly intricate plan of the what, how and when of their forthcoming undertakings. Oddly enough, Dan was _intrigued_ and excitedly anticipated the prospect of spending more time with the man he still loved deeply, of saying _fuck it_ and just going for it – one last time, a last attempt at finding each other again.

One final chance at lighting the dark together.

Maybe they were pushing their luck, perhaps all of their efforts and intentions would backfire and they would be knocked out of the skies with all but violent force – but if they didn't at least _try_ , they would come down before they even had a chance to lift off, so really, what _exactly_ did they have to lose? Dan didn't know whether he was ready – or _willing_ – to allow himself to hope that any of this _nonsense_ might actually make enough of a difference to save them from going under, but he did not regret agreeing to this frankly _preposterous_ plan that his lover had come up with – even if all it did was draw out the time until he would, inevitably, be alone.

 

Kyle had two simple conditions.

_One_ , there was no copping out, no matter what might happen, and _two_ , Dan was not, under any circumstances, permitted to peep at their ever-growing list of “firsts” – and despite having his suspicions as to where Kyle was hiding it, the older man decided to humour his lover. At least for now.

They started with the small, uncomplicated tasks – those that were, by all means, near _impossible_ to fail at. They painted each other's nails, rewatched the first seasons of _Grey's Anatomy_ whilst eating microwave popcorn out of a big salad bowl (Dan couldn't believe they had supposedly never done that before), made an outrageously sweet chocolate cake roll which they _somehow_ finished off over the course of a single day and used a cheap handicraft set that Kyle had bought in the kids' section of an art supplies shop to mould and paint a small number of crooked plaster figures.

Dan had _fun_. The popcorn tasted stale after no more than ten minutes, the cake roll made him _vow_ never to eat again and the paint that was included in the plaster moulding set worked about as well as coloured mayonnaise – but he was happy. Kyle shaved Dan's head because it was one of those things that the older man had always wanted to do but had never had the balls to go through with, and while his lover was rubbing his head _for good luck_ , Dan laughed for the first time in what felt like forever, really _laughed_ until tears were streaming down his face. He enjoyed living with Kyle again, appreciated talking to him, joking around and kissing him. Loving him.

They would wake up whenever they wished, with the rising of the yellow sun or as noon unfolded lazily around them; feeling rested and hungry, they would eat whatever they pleased and head off to cross another task off the list, would sit on their tiny balcony in the exceptionally hot evenings, watching the searing sun set while they drank cold beer or iced coffee from the horrendously expensive shop down the street that it was _so_ worth exposing themselves to the well-nigh unbearable heat for.

It was good, it felt like a good life. One that Dan could live.

One that he knew he wouldn't.

 

The first two weeks passed like sand through an hourglass and the two men decided to throw all caution to the winds. On a slow, simmering morning, they travelled South to spend the day exploring a small seaside village. Sitting in the rickety car they had rented, they watched the lush landscape fly past in a blur – they barely talked, but the silence that filled their hearts was pleasant and heavy with meaning. The wind was serene and the sky blue, blue like an ocean, and they ate antipasti at a tiny Italian bistro that was wedged comfortably between two old brick houses, sitting in wobbly white plastic chairs as they peered at every passer-by from the restaurant's small terrace.

 

Dan was exhausted.

He had _dreamed_ again, had woken up in a cold sweat despite the breathtaking heat. He had been having the same dream for weeks, _months_ now, since long before they had started on this little adventure of theirs, and he had genuinely hoped that the rediscovered intimacy that they had forgotten how to share would pull him out of the nightmares he feared. But it didn't.

In his dreams, he was still drowning.

There was water all around him, forcing itself into his lungs, its dark walls closing in on him. It seared down his throat as he drew the agonising breath that should save him – but all he breathed was salty water, cold and merciless. Dan would wake up gasping for air, gulping down as much oxygen as his lungs could hold, and the hot tears that stung his eyes did nothing to make him forget those icy masses, those threatening, crushing waves that threw him around and forced him deeper into oblivion. All he could do was sit silently amid the tangled sheets and stare into the noiseless night until his eyes threatened to fall shut and he lay back down, burying his face in the crook of Kyle's neck and making himself as small as possible, as if the black nightmares wouldn't find him in the shadows if only he sunk deep enough into the mattress. Sometimes, after a particularly debilitating dream, Kyle would wrap his arms around Dan's middle, subconsciously and unshaken from his deep sleep, but instead of making him feel comforted, the feelings of warmth and safety that coursed through him worsened Dan's loneliness and only managed to spur his fear of being suffocated excruciatingly slowly.

Dan didn't tell Kyle. He didn't want to open a can of worms, refused to ruin what they had only just won back. He dug into the stuffed honey peppers, the black olives and the red wine until he felt dazed enough to convince himself that soon enough, he would be able to _forget_ , and he relished the taste of bitter alcohol on Kyle's lips when they kissed after downing two shots of Marsala and strolled down the narrow streets, shaken from their Mediterranean reverie by the familiar charity shops that were strung together like beads on a string, by the cackling school kids streaming into the nearest _Asda_ and two older ladies yelling at each other conversationally from opposite sides of the cobbled road.

The following day, they stumbled upon a tiny back-alley cinema one town over and chose a film by pointing blindly at the rather unimpressive programme. Dan wasn't even sure what exactly the low-budget production was about, too busy trying not to make a sound while Kyle breathed against his cheek, kissed his lips and rubbed his nose against his neck. He felt like a bloody teenager again, like he could take on the world, and the cold, creeping darkness that scared him witless night after night felt like a warm blanket as it wrapped itself around their bodies.

 

They fought that night. For the first time since their little experiment had started, they yelled at each other, threw around words they knew they would regret, words that were impossible to pull back out of the air, like moths slipping through their fingers and taking flight. Dan had already forgotten what and who had started the argument a few days later, but at the time, he had been certain that this was it, that they would stop trying to salvage a doomed relationship and go back to the way things had been before – or worse. And yet, in a moment of silence, both of them breathing heavily, trying to stare each other down, Kyle had suddenly started laughing, loudly and with his whole body, and even though Dan had wanted to be mad at him, to scream that this was no laughing matter at all, he found himself laughing along with the taller man until they surrendered to each other's warmth and fell into bed, the heat of their argument translating beautifully to a heat that Dan had missed for a very long time.

 

Three days later, Dan held Kyle's hand while his partner got his eyebrow pierced. The younger man, nervous beyond reason, proclaimed that it had all been a lousy, mightily stupid idea before they even reached the small shop they had chosen, but Dan only chuckled and reminded his lover of the “highly important” rule number one – _no quitting_. Kyle, close to hyperventilation, squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation when the cold needle touched his warm skin, and yet, two minutes after the whole ordeal was over and done with, he swore that it was nothing, _no biggie_ , and that Dan was _totally exaggerating_ – he hadn't even been that scared. Dan let him have it, this small victory.

They went to a death metal gig at a tiny club, where some mildly intimidating band – Children of _something or other_ – was playing, and Dan nearly gave up when Kyle appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, smirking as he held up a pack of black and white paint. It took the younger man some vigorous convincing, but they really did end up leaving the house in full face paint – and Dan felt _incredibly fucking stupid_. They waited in the surprisingly long queue for over an hour, standing in-between small groups of tall men with long, bushy beards and enviably voluminous hair who, in a shocking turn of events, welcomed them warmly in their midst, shared their beer with them and compared their heavy boots to Dan's ratty trainers with deep, throaty laughs. It was a slightly surreal experience. Forty-five minutes into the ... _energetic_ performance, Kyle grabbed Dan's hand firmly in his own and led him out into the warm, humming night, joking about not wanting to be crushed to death by pure testosterone, and Dan heaved a sigh of relief.

It didn't come as a surprise that their _unusual_ appearance attracted more or less everybody's attention as they sat on the tube – the unworn leather jackets and ripped blue jeans seeming all too tame in comparison with the harsh paint covering their faces – and Dan clearly wasn't impressed.

“Why are they only staring at _me_?” he mumbled into Kyle's hair, fidgeting with his jacket, “it's like you're not even there.”

 

Kyle chuckled deeply and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lover's temple. “Because you're the pretty one,” he whispered and Dan punched his arm affectionately.

 

The following morning, they woke up to ugly smudges of black and grey on their pillows and Dan laughed outright when he saw his eerie reflection in the mirror. They washed the bedsheets in the dim basement that smelled distinctly of orangey laundry detergent and hung them out on the balcony, the sun warming their scrubbed skin and drying the pristine sheets. Kyle whined that his eyebrow was hurting again and albeit feeling like his lover was merely fishing for pity, Dan made him iced tea, urged Kyle to sit in the shade and spent all afternoon baking tea cakes. They were still warm when they ate them in the golden light of the setting sun.

 

Then Dan's nightmares got worse.

It almost seemed as if they were becoming more intense the happier he felt, the closer he inched to feeling _whole_ again, as if to remind him that this summer, too, would end – just like all the others before. The sun would sink into the horizon and darkness would creep into their lives again.

Dan felt like they could only lose.

He began fearing sleep, would oftentimes propose pulling all-nighters, racing through whichever TV classics they could get their hands on, staying up talking or reading to each other past sunrise – anything to avert that threatening unconsciousness. He dreaded seeing those frightful waves seconds before they crashed into him and _knowing_ there was no escaping them, no matter how fiercely he fought, was frightened of being thrown around by those deadly masses, of losing his grip on reality, on reason and rationale. Dan didn't want to think about the water that pulled him into the dark and filled his lungs. About the screams that had begun invading his dreams, cries of warning and anguish whose origin he didn't want to acknowledge.

 

In spite of it all, it was little short of a miracle how deeply _in love_ they were again, as if the past year had been but a figment of the imagination, and Dan was reminded of easier times, many years ago when things had been so much simpler, when they had held each other every night, holding on as if they feared they might disappear, and woken up with soft smiles on their faces. When they had kissed and loved each other effortlessly. Dan knew better now, knew that love wasn't _supposed_ to be painless, that it was not to be taken for granted, but with time, he had grown weary of trying so damn hard and still feeling like it was never enough. Now it felt easy again, essential and significant. Being in love was something that happened to him when he opened his eyes in the morning, not something that he had to remind himself of.

 

Within the blink of an eye, six weeks had drifted past like smoke, forty-two days filled with laughter and tenderness, with new chapters and sweet kisses, passionate embraces and sincere declarations of love, and Dan was full of hope again, was beginning to think that maybe they had a shot after all, perhaps they would be able to continue to love each other even when the list was complete and each and every line of messy writing crossed out.

 

One day, Kyle ordered the cheapest home wine tasting set they could find online and they sat cross-legged on the living room floor in the dark, late hours of the evening, acting all sophisticated whilst laughing heartily about how little they actually _liked wine_. Feeling woozy and slightly ridiculous, Dan immediately jumped into action when Kyle proclaimed that special occasions did indeed call for special measures and that he needed his favourite mug _at once_ – the one with the all-over cat print. The older man jogged leisurely into the office, feeling pleasantly unsteady on his bare feet as he pulled the door open. Grabbing Kyle's favourite cup from the bookshelf, he caught the briefest glimpse of a folded, terribly crinkled sheet of paper poking out of one of the half-open drawers – and his curiosity got the better of him. He knew he should know better than to break one of only two rules that Kyle had insisted on, but he couldn't help himself as he held the list in his hands, a tender smile tugging on his lips. It wouldn't hurt anyone if he prepared himself for whatever Kyle had in store for him next.

 

_Things We've Never Done_ it still said at the top and Dan noted, not without amusement, that Kyle's unmistakable handwriting had visibly worsened over the course of the past weeks. One by one, each and every line had been crossed out in blue and black, some in red or even green, and the older man was surprised to find that they appeared to have finished most of the list by now and that only a handful of challenges were left for them to conquer.

 

_Learn conversational French._

_Sleep in a haunted hotel._ He could _so_ get behind that.

_Ride a gondola._

_All-night road trip._ Had they really never done that?

 

The list went on and on until Dan's eyes fell on the very last line, written in the same neat, curly handwriting as the title – as if it had always been there, the only imaginable outcome. Dan's eyes widened and his stomach dropped. Two simple, unassuming words and still, they felt like a punch in the throat.

 

 

_Move on._

 

 

Dan heard Kyle enter the room quietly, but he felt paralysed – he couldn't speak, felt unable to form even a single thought in his head.

_He was drowning._

Kyle spoke first, his voice almost silent.

“Dan.”

 

The older man felt hot tears stinging his eyes before he felt the sobs clawing at his throat. He tried to swallow.

“Kyle, p-please – it's working out, isn't it?”

 

The younger man smiled. “It _did_ work out, for a while. And I will keep these memories right here, forever,” he promised, one hand resting over his heart. He closed the short distance between them and wiped away his love's tears, his hands steady and gentle.

“You need to let me go, Dan,” he whispered and pressed their foreheads together, “it's been _a year_.”

Leaning forward, he kissed Dan softly, so softly as if his touch were but a fleeting summer breeze – and suddenly, Dan couldn't breathe. The water was filling up his lungs again, choking him, and Kyle looked too pale in the warm light that illuminated the room, his lips almost blue.

 

_Drowning._

Dan was drowning. He couldn't breathe.

Kyle had said that his eyes were bluer than the ocean they were diving into that morning, that he wouldn't mind drowning in them, and all of a sudden, he was shouting Dan's name, screaming as the waves crashed into them and threw them around like rag dolls. Dan felt a pair of strong hands grabbing him, holding him above water, but they weren't Kyle's – they were too harsh, not the gentle touch he was accustomed to. He felt the rough sand pricking his wet skin as he fell face first onto the beach, heaving breath after aching breath. A strange man was holding him back, holding on to his arms as Dan tried to push himself into an upright position, ready to jump back into the roaring waves. He couldn't hear them, couldn't hear the stranger's voice nor his own strangled cries, his ears feeling as if they were filled with cotton wool, but he knew it was _wrong_. This was wrong, he couldn't just stand back and watch as- he needed to _help_ Kyle. He _had to_ -

“I couldn't help you,” Dan sobbed and Kyle shook his head vehemently.

 

“It _wasn't your fault_ ,” he proclaimed decidedly, gazing into Dan's eyes and caressing his cheek.

But _how_ , how could it _not_ be Dan's fault – he was here, after all, was allowed to watch the sun rise each morning and set every night while the love of his life-

“You were the one, you know?” Kyle spoke softly, a sad smile darkening his eyes, “I would've spent the rest of my life with you.” He swallowed visibly. “And I know there's a lot of things we never got to do together. But _you_ can still do them. Do them for me. Do them for _you_ and tell me about them in your dreams. Do them with twice as much passion, for both of us. But _do them_. For the love of God, don't give up just because I'm not here to laugh at you while you do all the things we only ever talked about – travelling the world, meeting the most amazing people. Adopting a cat, buying a house ... getting married.”

 

“I am _never_ getting married,” Dan vowed, but the anger that made his voice break quickly turned to grief. “Please, I'm begging you, Kyle. Please don't leave, _don't leave me_.”

Kyle looked like he was _fading_ , like he was exhausted beyond words, but Dan couldn't let him go, he couldn't live like this.

He was so scared of being alone.

“It doesn't make sense without you.”

 

“I can't promise it ever will,” Kyle admitted hesitantly, “but it sure as hell won't if you don't try.”

 

“I _can't_ -”

 

“Just _try_. That's all I'm asking!” Kyle exclaimed, raising his voice considerably, “For fuck's sake, Dan – I don't get to love you anymore, don't you see? I don't get to wake up next to you, to travel the world, to see all the places we were going to see together. But _you can_. You can still _live_ and every time you go someplace we dreamed of, every time you do something we were robbed of, I want you to think about me, to cross it off the list. To put it in here.” He placed a hand over Dan's heart. “And I'll be there with you in spirit. In the wind.”

 

Dan couldn't breathe.

“I can't forget about you. I can't. What if I don't remember your face anymore, five years from now, ten? Your laugh? Your touch?”

 

Kyle smiled. “You don't need to remember my face if you only remember this feeling,” he uttered quietly and wrapped his arms around Dan one last time, pulling him close. “You will never forget the way I made you feel. I'm sure of it.”

 

 

 

/ /

 

 

 

Around noon the following day, Dan slowly came to in their bed, alone. The tireless alarm clock on the nightstand was still ticking, the world was still spinning – and Kyle was still gone.

Exactly one year now.

Dan stared at the ceiling for a very long time, at the damp stains on the battered wallpaper, the subtle imperfections he had never noticed before. He stared at the framed photographs on the wall, the glare of sunlight that squeezed through the window shutters reflecting off the glass and rendering Kyle's face unrecognisable, stared at his black suit that still hung on the handle of the wardrobe, at the shiny shoes that had been so uncomfortable on that rainy morning. At Kyle's headphones, his silver rings and the shrivelled chestnuts that he had insisted on keeping and placed in a neat row on the bookshelf. Dan had fallen asleep in the first light of dawn, with Kyle's arms holding him in a loving embrace and the soothing sound of his deep voice putting an end to his tears until a silent breeze carried it across the ocean.

 

Dan got up with great difficulty and stumbled more than he walked past stacks of outdated newspapers, the once-vibrant black ink pale and faded, past unopened mail and the withered flowers that their friends had brought him after the funeral and that were now collecting dust, past the black-rimmed letters of sympathy. He walked into the kitchen where Kyle's cat mug stood on the counter, the string of a dried up teabag hanging over the side, and he opened a window, letting in the gentle summer wind and the blaring noise and the smells and the heat.

 

 

And he breathed.

 


End file.
